I am uploading all of the chapters I have at once! More to come.

Disclaimer: I wish I owned either Harry Potter or Firebreather, but sadly, that is not the case.

"And stay in there you ungrateful brat! - Or I'll, I'll"

Harry couldn't stop the confrontational retort from climbing its way out of his throat, "Or you'll what?!"

The fat man's face turned an overripe puce color "I'll- wring your scrawny little neck!"

Harry's only reply was to only reach a hand towards his pocket, eyes narrowed dangerously, and whisper, "I'd like to see you try."

His face blanched an unhealthy white. The last words before he disappeared behind the shield that was the door was a more panicked than angry "STAY!" and then there was the loud slam reverberating unpleasantly off the walls of the rubbish filled room.

The last few months at the Dursley's had been absolutely killer. If it hadn't been one thing, it had been another, but it ended in a mostly one-sided shouting match through the door. But it hadn't ever been to this point. That was the last time he had left his room since he had been interned in this stupid place.

Which meant he had more than enough time to experiment.

In the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, illuminated by a simple set of candles, Harry Potter sat in complete motionlessness. Before him was the journal his father and his friends had written in, detailing their accounts of the difficult animagus transformation, a journal Harry had read well over a dozen times during his stay in Durskaban. Though his "family" had been relatively ...civil due to the Dementor incident last summer.

But really, He would much rather be in his room than out with the suckling pig boy and that sow. The feeling of animosity that he had experienced in Dumbledore's office had only increased in his time away from the school. Back before he had gone to the order earlier in the year, no one had talked to him, they kept him in the dark. Rather than stay with people who cared about him, the foisted him off on his emotionally abusive relatives. He couldn't help but be resentful towards the people who were most likely happier than he was, and even more so in that they could get away from their troubles, while he was stuck in the muggle world with no way to escape his negative thoughts.

No way except his animagus studies. He wasn't exactly sure how no one from the ministry had been to his door yet, but he wasn't exactly surprised. He knew for a fact that Voldemort was in charge over there, so it might be in their best interests to leave him alone for now. Better to have the enemy in familiar territory rather than in an unknown place.

But since they hadn't come for him yet, he felt like they had given him the go ahead to use magic anyway. After that embarrassment at court, he felt like they wouldn't be coming for him any time soon.

So he found himself leafing through the already memorized pages of the book, fingers tracing softly over slightly faded ink, the occasional ink splatter of an abused quill. The words wove a tale of daring and adventure, the occasional mistake and the sporadic inside joke.

He could just imagine the adventures behind the words, the laughter behind the jokes. The comradery, friendship, family. If they had been here, he could've had that. But no. He shook his head, the past wasn't something to be stuck on. It was something to be remembered, grieved over, and learned from. He had his future to protect now, and this was a tool to do it.

The book described, in essence, that it took meditation, and introspection, an analysis of the person in order to find ones animal form. Of course it didn't say that word for word. It took quite a bit of summarization to get that- what with a lot of the actual phrases and wording being written in Sirius's script, and some of the slightly more technical words being from his father. Sirius just wasn't the sort of person to be neat and orderly, and with his father's help, it only got slightly more legible and overall it tended to jump from one topic to another with little to no preamble.

But every page echoed laughter and their essence.

It was heartbreaking to read. He got to know them through the pages, like the time Prongs tried to turn into his buck form, and only succeeded in the antlers in the tale. Or Padfoot when he couldn't stand any kind of smell or sound due to his enhanced senses. Not to mention he most likely looked ridiculous with the dog nose and ears sticking out of his unruly nest of hair.

But, right- meditation. It took a lot of self-control and restraint that he thought he didn't have, but after trying, again and again he could feel himself relaxing. How could someone as spastic and lighthearted as Sirius accomplish it?

So instead he chose to think about his life. The people he hated- Malfoy, Snape, the Dursleys, Voldemort. The people he loved, his family, Hermione, Ron, Hagrid, Sirius, the rest of the Weasleys, Ginny. All the people that made living this miserable life worth living, make it a world he wanted to live in. Images would flash by, Ron and the slugs, Ginny and Tom's book, Dumbledore and Marvolo Gaunt's ring. The veil, court, Buckbeak, Norman. All of the good and the bad.

He could tell by his actions and the actions of others. He could tell things about himself. He had pride, he was loyal. He could be foolish, but thought with his heart. He had more problems than most, he was usually selfless. For all of the bad he had seen, he still believed in the good in others, and was still idealistic.

What animals were anything like that, not a dog like Sirius, not a cat, otter-no, something with fur.

His arms felt itchy.

Something soft, but powerful. Something regal.

He could feel bones creaking.

Something that could be dangerous, something with weapons.

Skin stretched.

He could feel it, he was on the verge of something, on the verge of uncovering his true self.

The uncomfortable itching, the feeling of cracking bones shifting, the morphing of limbs. All of it uncomfortable, but none of it overly painful. But he would be fine, even if it was. He was used to pain.

Somehow, over the course of it, he had stood, he didn't know when, all he could feel was the flow of the stagnant air. The flaring of nostrils as he scented dirty clothes dotting the floor like the white splotches on a fauns soft downy fur.

He knew he was positioned perfectly so that should he open his eyes, he would see himself in the slightly broken mirror on the wall across from him (It was broken when Dudley through a tantrum about his diet).

Weeks of practice, weeks of hard work, isolation, effort, all culminating in this moment. Standing straight, his spine cracked on last time, and he shivered in glee. The feeling was like no other, but for the slightly claustrophobic feeling, but for the longing to be in the trees, running on the grass, he felt the same. Slightly disoriented, feeling like life was something to be enjoyed, that things were much simpler.

There was nothing to be worried about other than predators, about getting food. No nightmares would be waiting for him when he would sleep, and every morning would be greeted with joy. But No. That was the animal in him speaking, the simplistic nature coming to the forefront of his mind. Humans were different, more complicated- but he wanted nothing more than to stay like this. He would be free.

But he couldn't.

He started to open his eyes, and when the slightest slit opened, he saw what he had expected. He was a buck, like his father. Proud, strong, tall. Eyes the deepest forest green, dappled with bits of gold like the sunlight glinting off morning dew. Antlers that almost reached the ceiling, sharp, pointed, weapons. In this form, he wasn't the weak Harry Potter, he could protect himself.

These thoughts passed in a fraction of a second.

That's when his eyes fully opened and the agony started.